[ Talk about a moodkiller. Dabi's tone of voice alone is enough to squelch his elation halfway; the contents of what he's saying finishes the job. And while the momentum of Fuuta's drunk giddiness doesn't completely die off, he does sober up significantly when he hears that admission of guilt. 'I've killed people with my own hands.' Sand scuffs underfoot with each step, and Fuuta is silent for few moments, letting the weight of those words sink in.
Though Dabi might note that Fuuta doesn't pull away even upon hearing that, remaining tucked up against him and leaning on him with each wobbly step. They're so close that he must be able to feel the way Fuuta takes a deep inhale, then exhales slowly; there's probably the tickle of flyaway strands of sweat-damp hair against his jawline when Fuuta slumps a little more against him. Even drunk, he knows to keep his voice low, his words confined to the muggy air just around them. ]
... y'know how I told you there was ten of us in there. S'cause we were all murderers, supposedly.
[ It's edged with a bitter laugh as Fuuta shakes his head. Himself, a murderer. He refuses to accept that accusation, even if he'll acknowledge a smidgen of responsibility. ]
We didn't talk about it. I dunno, maybe all of'em were like me. Just accused. But, like ... what're the chances? I bet some of'em have actually killed. Actually. Probably. [ Kotoko for sure. Who else? Maybe Mikoto. It's hard to even guess. He doesn't want to think about it too hard right now. ] An' s'not like I got along with all of'em. Hell, couldn't stand some of'em. But ... I owed some of'em, y'know. For helping me. And there's a few I even got along with okay. Even if they might've been actual murderers.
[ It's the sort of thing he couldn't have ever imagined himself saying before ending up in Milgram. Violence is bad, murder worse. So a willful, purposeful, direct killing is surely unforgivable, right? Only a truly wretched brute, someone irredeemable and undeserving of acceptance, would commit such an act, right? -- maybe. A part of him still wants to cling to that belief, unwilling to completely give up on his understanding of what is and isn't right. But -- ]
So I dunno. I think I'd be okay with it. [ It's said as he sags against Dabi, practically melting into his side and nuzzling into his shoulder, nosing into the fabric of his shirt. It smells of ocean salt and sun-baked sand, with an undercurrent of that strange scent Dabi carries with him; it's an oddly comforting smell in this moment. He wants more of it, all of it. ] S'not like I think ... killing people is right. It's not. But maybe s'not my business.
[ What had condemning bad people and calling them out for their wrongdoings gotten him in the end? Blame, punishment, and years lost to a prison where he'd almost gotten beaten to death. Maybe he never should have bothered. Maybe he should've just turned a blind eye to it all. Old habits are hard to break, but a part of him wonders if it's what he should do going forth, especially while he's still stuck here in this madhouse. -- and especially if it's what would help him cement his spot at Dabi's side, where he feels like he belongs. ]
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Though Dabi might note that Fuuta doesn't pull away even upon hearing that, remaining tucked up against him and leaning on him with each wobbly step. They're so close that he must be able to feel the way Fuuta takes a deep inhale, then exhales slowly; there's probably the tickle of flyaway strands of sweat-damp hair against his jawline when Fuuta slumps a little more against him. Even drunk, he knows to keep his voice low, his words confined to the muggy air just around them. ]
... y'know how I told you there was ten of us in there. S'cause we were all murderers, supposedly.
[ It's edged with a bitter laugh as Fuuta shakes his head. Himself, a murderer. He refuses to accept that accusation, even if he'll acknowledge a smidgen of responsibility. ]
We didn't talk about it. I dunno, maybe all of'em were like me. Just accused. But, like ... what're the chances? I bet some of'em have actually killed. Actually. Probably. [ Kotoko for sure. Who else? Maybe Mikoto. It's hard to even guess. He doesn't want to think about it too hard right now. ] An' s'not like I got along with all of'em. Hell, couldn't stand some of'em. But ... I owed some of'em, y'know. For helping me. And there's a few I even got along with okay. Even if they might've been actual murderers.
[ It's the sort of thing he couldn't have ever imagined himself saying before ending up in Milgram. Violence is bad, murder worse. So a willful, purposeful, direct killing is surely unforgivable, right? Only a truly wretched brute, someone irredeemable and undeserving of acceptance, would commit such an act, right? -- maybe. A part of him still wants to cling to that belief, unwilling to completely give up on his understanding of what is and isn't right. But -- ]
So I dunno. I think I'd be okay with it. [ It's said as he sags against Dabi, practically melting into his side and nuzzling into his shoulder, nosing into the fabric of his shirt. It smells of ocean salt and sun-baked sand, with an undercurrent of that strange scent Dabi carries with him; it's an oddly comforting smell in this moment. He wants more of it, all of it. ] S'not like I think ... killing people is right. It's not. But maybe s'not my business.
[ What had condemning bad people and calling them out for their wrongdoings gotten him in the end? Blame, punishment, and years lost to a prison where he'd almost gotten beaten to death. Maybe he never should have bothered. Maybe he should've just turned a blind eye to it all. Old habits are hard to break, but a part of him wonders if it's what he should do going forth, especially while he's still stuck here in this madhouse. -- and especially if it's what would help him cement his spot at Dabi's side, where he feels like he belongs. ]